


One Summer's Day

by pearypie



Series: blue moonlight on yellow sand [1]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Childhood Memories, F/M, How Vincent and Frances's kissing game got started, Pre-Canon, Stolen Kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 14:36:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11876616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: In which Vincent won't tell and Frances is forced to get a little creative.“How about this,” he tries, “I’ll tell you what made me laugh. In turn, I get three kisses.”“Why three?” His little sister asks, having completely forgotten about her scratched knee and previous troubles.“Because two’s not enough and four seems excessive.”“You’re excessive.”“I’m a man of class and taste.”“You’re ten, Vincent. You haven’t got either of those things.”For Indochine





	One Summer's Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Indochine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indochine/gifts).



Their kissing game began quite by accident, when Frances first tumbled off the walnut tree one fine spring day. She sat near the trunk, nursing a scraped knee, bruised cheek, and bloodied lip. Her eyes are solemn, wide with apprehension at the thought of mother scolding her for having ruined her pretty silk dress. (It was a matter of principle, Vincent knows that. Frances has many gowns and mother loves clothes but it was the _principle_ —noble girls oughtn’t be so careless.)

“Well now. I never thought I’d see the day when a walnut tree could stun my baby sister into sad silence.”

“I’m not sad.” Frances snaps, hands still clutching at her knee. “I’m contemplating. There’s a difference.”

She’s eight years old—there is _no difference_ —but Vincent indulges her because…well, why not? “Alright.” He shrugs and moves to stand a little closer. “What’s your excuse for this fine mess?”

“I don’t have to make an excuse. I’ll tell mother the truth.” She lifts her chin with a hint of defiance. “I fell. Plain and simple.”

“That’s _boring._ ” Vincent rolls his eyes. “You’re my _sister_ —say you were battling a rabid squirrel or something, at least that’d be entertaining.”

“I hardly think my purpose in life is to amuse you, big brother.” She returns and Vincent is proud at how sharp her quips are becoming—within a year or so she could give the wittiest wordsmith a run for their money. “And in any case _truth_ doesn’t need to be play staged by Kit Marlowe. That’s why it’s called _truth,_ a veritable statement that explains what’s happened.”

Vincent kneels down next to her, laugh on his lips. “My god,” he smiles, looking at her torn stockings, “are you sure we’re related? Perhaps mother found you abandoned outside Ludlow Castle—it’d make much more sense if you were the daughter of some long forgotten prince of Wales than the legitimate child of Claudia Phantomhive.”

“Don’t be jealous Vincent.” Frances smirks. “It’s not my fault no one believes anything that comes out of your mouth these days.”

He laughs for a moment—a sound of careless joy escaping his lips. It’s a rare, curious sight and probably one of the reasons Frances forgives him—just a little bit.

“Little sister,” he tucks his hand under her chin, “have you just called me a liar?”

“Yes.” She answers, obstinate and willful and so beautifully _Frances_ that it causes Vincent to laugh all over again. “What’s so funny?” She demands, looking a little less pleased. “Tell me what’s so funny, Vincent.” She reaches up, hands latching onto his jacket sleeve and giving it a light tug—the way she used to do when they were three and five respectively. When Frances was too little to keep up with Vincent’s easy strides and would cling to his left hand, fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt sleeve, giving it two quick tugs when she wanted to be picked up.

It’s a habit she hasn’t quite shed and Vincent won’t tell anyone he finds it just the tiniest bit adorable.

His sister. She’s always been horribly endearing.

“You really expect me to tell you?” His teal eyes shine with unsuppressed amusement.

“Yes.” Frances crosses her arms, lower lip jutting out ever so slightly—it’s a pout.

She’s _pouting_ and oh, Vincent wishes he’d brought a camera to record this for posterity.

Instead, he shakes his head, feigning lamentable regret. “Sorry love, but I’m a liar remember? You won’t believe anything I say no matter what I tell you.”

“That’s not true!” His sister uncrosses her arms just as quickly, hands fisting the green grass around them. “I know when you’re lying and when you’re telling the truth.”

“Have you considered joining Scotland Yard?”

“I’ll run the place one day.” She replies with a wave of her hand and Vincent isn’t sure if she’s joking or not—truth be told, his sister could run for prime minister and he wouldn’t be surprised at her victory. But dreams of political coups are far from Frances’s mind as she presses herself closer to him, determined to provoke an honest answer from her wretchedly handsome older brother. “Come now Vincent, tell me why you laughed and I promise Helen Otway won’t turn you away at Baron Weatherly’s ball tomorrow.” She presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Please?”

 _Well, well, well—little sister’s growing up._ He’s mildly impressed. “You would manipulate the heart of your closest companion and force her to agree to something she may or may not desire—though, I have to add, I am a _exceptional_ dancer—“ Frances mutters something that sounds vaguely close to an insult at that comment but Vincent ignores it, “—just so you can glean a bit of information from a brother you yourself acknowledge as a serial liar?”

Frances doesn’t think twice. “Yes.” She answers, matter-of-factly, sounding so perfectly _Phantomhive_ that Vincent has to suppress a rather strange urge to lean in and kiss her—and not on the cheek.

“How about this,” he tries, “I’ll tell you what made me laugh. In turn, I get three kisses.”

“Why three?” His little sister asks, having completely forgotten about her scratched knee and previous troubles. 

“Because two’s not enough and four seems excessive.”

“ _You’re_ excessive.”

“I’m a man of class and taste.”

“You’re _ten,_ Vincent. You haven’t got either of those things.”

 _Cheeky little thing aren’t you?_ Vincent muses with a hint of fond exasperation. Feigning annoyance, he crosses his arms. “You’re stalling.” He accuses, knowing if there was one thing Frances Phantomhive hated more than slovenly hairstyles, it was having her courage questioned.

And barely half a second passes before Vincent realizes Frances has wrapped her arms around his neck and placed herself on his lap. He barely catches a glimpse of fiery emerald eyes before her rosebud mouth crashes onto his own, Frances’s plump lower lip covering his as Vincent tastes dried blood and plum cake with a hint of unconscious pleasure. She tilts her head and Vincent doesn’t think she’s doing it on purpose—doesn’t think she’s mimicking anyone at all—it’s natural instinct that’s causing her to move closer, to press her chest against his and kiss him so hard that it takes a moment for him to realize what’s actually happening.

Once he does, however, Vincent is ready. He latches one arm around her waist and pulls her in, a cool chuckle escaping his lips as he hears Frances mutter _one_ under her breath before leaning back to catch her breath.

“You’re a third of the way there.” Vincent smiles. “Two more.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Fine. But once I win this kissing game—“

“ _You_ win the kissing game?”

She nods. “Yes, once _I_ win—“

“No chance.” Vincent retorts and this time, it’s him who’s leaning in and pressing an open mouthed kiss to Frances. He’s read about kisses like these in the _Madame Bovary_ chapters he’d pilfered from his governess—how one’s tongue is supposed to caress their lover’s lower lip; how kisses like these are meant for French mistresses, not prudent English brides.

But Frances is neither his wife nor his mistress but he doesn’t think it’s fair that the French get to have all the fun—and truth be told, Vincent’s always been a bit of a deviant. (The more mischievous part of him wonders how good, proper Frances would react if she knew he was kissing her the way Madame Pompadour used to be kissed?) He doesn’t dwell on that thought for too long because it seems his baby sister is a quick study and soon, she’s got her little hands tangled in his hair and her milk teeth are scraping against his mouth in the most _enticing_ manner and he thinks kissing games shouldn’t be this much _fun—_

“Two.” Frances breathes but it sounds like a gasp as she tries to suck in air before Vincent is on her again. He doesn’t care much for competition but he does like winning.

This time, Vincent tilts his head, wanting a deeper kiss than before. One hand comes up, caressing Frances’s cheek, cupping her jaw as he leans back ever so slightly, thumb stroking her bottom lip. It’s a magnificent sight he thinks—she’s a watercolor painting come to life, with her cherry ripe mouth swollen and pretty and made even redder by the cut across her mouth.

“You’ve got a good mouth for kissing.” Vincent notes offhandedly and swallows her answer when she begins to protest. Truthfully, Vincent has no idea how to win a kissing game but he thinks it might be measured by the rapid heartbeat in both their chests and the way Frances whimpers when he sucks on her split lip, tasting blood and fruit and feeling her hands tug at his hair with greater force.

Right before his sister can cry out, Vincent leans back and etches her adorably dazed face into his mind; teal eyes cherish the soft rose color of her flushed cheeks before he steals another quick kiss (Frances was right—he _is_ rather excessive) and smiles. “Four kisses. Shall I tell you my thoughts now?”

It takes a moment for her to reply but once she blinks and shoots him an awful glare, Vincent can’t help but pull her close, cuddling her with benign force. “What’s wrong sister dearest? Can’t stand the attention of your doting brother?” He laughs as she struggles to tear herself away, always sure not to impose too much force lest she accidentally injure him. “I’m wounded!” He peppers her with light kisses. “To think—all my life I’ve loved and cared for you, only to be treated like this! Alas, fair Penelope waited twenty years for her dear Odysseus and you can’t even tolerate my love for twenty seconds? For shame!”

“Let me go you giant _oaf_ —“

“I’m far too graceful to be considered an oaf—“

“I won the kissing game! You tell me your thoughts now!”

“Technically,” he places two more kisses on her forehead and nose, “ _I_ won the kissing game. I leaned in twice, you only leaned in once.”

“You didn’t give me a chance, you greedy thing.” She glares but it’s more playful than annoyed. “In any case, let’s call a draw. I know you won’t say a word otherwise.”

He gives her a wan smile. “Clever girl.” She really did know him too well.

She waits, clearly expectant and Vincent surrenders to her wide-eyed gaze.

“Very well. If you truly wish to know what I was thinking moments earlier then I’m sorry to say you’ll be rather disappointed because I can’t remember a single thing.” He shrugs. “Your kisses are dangerous little sister—mind warping. Are you sure you’re not a witch?”

“Why you—!”

He laughs, stealing another kiss before she’s chasing him through a patch of pink gillyflowers, cheeks red and eyes bright and Vincent thinks _yes,_ this kissing game might just be his new favorite pastime.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Kit Marlowe: English playwright and poet who greatly influenced the works of William Shakespeare. 
> 
> A/N: How the kissing game started. Because Vincent doesn’t like to lose and Frances gets a little too curious sometimes XD


End file.
